What Running Taught Me About Meditation

by Annie Mueller

It was really my impending birthday that motivated me: the idea of edging closer to 40, still carrying an extra 40 pounds, didn’t sit well. My decision to start running was very much ego-driven, not enlightenment-fuelled.

I found a simple program for beginning runners that promised to have me running an hour in 10 weeks. That was more than I wanted. I set my sights on running three miles within three months: adding one mile each month seemed like a good progression.

My first runs were painful and hilarious. I had zero stamina: even a 60-second interval of running was difficult. My shins hurt. My ankles hurt. My feet hurt. I almost fell, many times. Most days, I wanted to give up. It didn’t seem like I was making any progress.

That’s when I began to notice something unexpected, a benefit I hadn’t anticipated: on the days I got up and ran, I had an energy, calm, and clarity of mind that kept going. I would finish my run, shower, and meditate as usual, and it felt like some part of me stayed in that quiet place of meditation throughout the day.

I’ve been meditating regularly for a couple of years, but I still struggle with it. I don’t feel like I’m “good” at it, or that I get it. I get distracted easily. Sometimes five minutes seems like five hours.

However, I know meditation is a practice I want in my life. I am a better person when I take the time. My emotions are as real, but I can experience them without being controlled by them. The benefits of meditation are clear, but the practice itself, for me, has mostly been difficult.

Running began to change that. Even when I was huffing and puffing, feeling discouraged, and hurting, the physical effort and mental work I put into running carried into my meditation. It was like all the busy thoughts, the chatter, the worries got pounded into the pavement. When I got home and sat still, the stillness wasn’t assumed or forced; it came from the inside out.

I became more aware of my breathing, too. The running guide advised me to count breaths, to match the rhythm of my stride. I had adopted a few deep breathing techniques in my meditation practice, and now those breathing practices began to merge. As I meditated, I would find myself naturally slipping into a calm, steady, measured breathing rhythm as if I were running. As I ran, I would begin inhaling and exhaling in the looping sequence I used when meditating. Deep breathing was a game-changer for me with running: the first run that felt good, free, easy, and fast happened when I fell into that sequence. I experienced breathing as a deep force, a rhythm that guided me and held me steady as my legs moved quickly beneath me. It felt amazing, and still does.

It took me ten weeks of running to reach my three-mile goal: two weeks earlier than I planned. Within a few more days I ran four miles, and that’s when I realized that progress in running is cumulative and exponential, not linear and fixed. I also realized that running was no longer about hitting a goal, losing weight, or even making progress. It was about being; it was about the clarity, the connection, and the calm I felt, both during my runs and for hours afterward.

My meditation practice has shifted significantly because of what I’ve learned from running. I quit judging myself as “good” or “bad” at meditating; I quit worrying about whether a time of meditation was enjoyable or seemed beneficial in the moment. It’s not about how “good” you are at meditation, or at running: it’s about the day-in, day-out consistency. The consistent practice brings the internal and external changes. The consistent practice is what matters.

Running taught me to quit looking ahead to the distance or time requirement I’d set for myself, too. Inevitably, on the days when I focused on the goal, I ran with difficulty. I felt cheated, and that’s true: I was cheating myself out of the experience of each moment by focusing on some endpoint. Being in each moment, each footstep, each breath brings joy. This moment is where I find the fullness of the experience. It’s not about whether the experience is good or bad, whether I like it or don’t: it’s about being here, being mindful, being present in whatever experience I get to have.

The more I stayed in each moment, the more excited and open I became about running, as well. I’m usually very private about my goals and projects. Part of that is natural to my personality. Part of it is self-protection: if no one knows what I’m trying to achieve, they won’t know when I fail. There’s nothing wrong with being private, but we can miss help and insights. I learned that teachers are everywhere. Some showed me what to do; some showed me what not to do. In all cases, being humble and open—and not judging myself—led me to the help I needed.

Running also helped me clarify the importance difference between being and doing.

Internal self-talk is powerful. I noticed that at night, as I set out my running clothes and shoes, I would feel discouraged. If my last run had been difficult, I was anticipating a difficult one the next morning. So I started consciously telling myself better stories about how my runs would be: “You’re going to have a great run. You’re going to love it. You breathe steady. You have stamina.”

Those stories helped me… not at all. I would still feel sore, tired, and out of breath. My ankles still hurt. I pushed through it, but I struggled. Then one night I made a small change. I started telling myself what I am, not what I could do: “I am a runner. I am a person who runs.”

Those words were powerful. I no longer had to prove myself to be something, or to be capable of something: I simply acknowledged what I already was, at the “level” or skill I already had. I did not qualify myself by saying, “I am a runner because I can run a mile.” And my mind shifted to from striving to accepting. The result for my breathing and body were profound. As I released into being, rather than doing, I quit worrying, quit pushing, quit tensing up, and quit resisting. Everything became easier.

Running also taught me that it’s damaging to compare what I can do with what others can do. This is my own path, my own practice. It changes daily as I change. Right now I’m traveling with my family, and I don’t have the same routine for running or guaranteed quiet time for meditating that I do at home. That’s okay. The experience changes with me but it’s all valuable. The more I am open to what is possible in each day, the more I appreciate the variety. The practice remains, as consistent as I can make it, for both running and meditating. But the experience shifts with me and for me, in each moment and with each footstep. The steady, deep rhythm of my breathing creates an internal calm that remains, even as the world spins beneath my feet.

Annie Mueller is a freelance writer and content manager for creative small teams. She is based in Puerto Rico, where she lives with her husband and four children. She blogs regularly at www.AnnieMueller.com.